Howard Martin leaned back in his leather chair, the two scripts now closed and resting atop each other on the table. The afternoon sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds behind him, casting warm horizontal lines across his face. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Blake, sitting across the table, tried to stay calm. He had already gone over the possible reactions in his mind—Howard might be politely dismissive, mildly impressed, or at best, interested enough to show someone else. But this silence felt heavier. It wasn't rejection. Nor was it casual approval.
It was contemplation.
Finally, Howard exhaled deeply, tapping his fingers on the armrest before speaking.
"Blake, I'll be honest with you… these scripts—both of them—are good. Not just good for a beginner. They're… surprisingly mature."
Blake gave a small, tight-lipped smile. He wasn't the kind to get ahead of himself, not now.
"You said you wrote these yourself?" Howard asked, leaning forward a little.
"Yeah," Blake nodded. "No ghostwriters. Just me. I know they still need work, but I tried to make them solid."
Howard picked up The Spectacular Now again and flipped through the pages slowly. The script had a quiet energy. A believable rhythm. And even if the ending wasn't a blockbuster-style finish, it had something more valuable—heart.
"You have an ear for dialogue," Howard muttered, mostly to himself. "The scenes don't feel forced. The characters have layers. Even in Safety Not Guaranteed, which is a trickier genre blend, it works."
"Thanks… that means a lot, especially coming from you," Blake replied carefully, his voice steady.
Howard looked up.
"You ever think about tying yourself to a studio? Signing on with RCA?"
That was the question Blake had been expecting.
He paused, letting the silence stretch. Then, shaking his head slowly, he replied.
"I've thought about it. And to be honest… I don't think that's what I want right now."
Howard raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
"I want to stay independent. I'm not against working with RCA, but I'd rather remain a freelance writer. Sell scripts, pitch ideas, maybe even work on-set if that helps me grow. But tying myself to one company—at least for now—I think that'll limit me more than help me."
Howard chuckled faintly, leaning back again. There was a hint of nostalgia in his expression.
"Your dad would've said the same damn thing," he said softly. "He hated being boxed in."
Blake smiled at the mention. It was a rare moment.
Howard picked up a pen from his desk and clicked it a few times, a habit he hadn't broken over the years.
"Okay, here's what I can do. I can buy the film rights to both scripts. Just the rights, not locking you down with a writing deal or anything like that. I'll have RCA hold the production rights temporarily while we figure out how to package these properly."
"That works for me," Blake replied, quietly relieved.
"For The Spectacular Now, I can offer you thirty-five thousand upfront. That's about standard for a promising drama script, especially from a first-time writer."
Blake nodded slowly. That was a good offer. Not amazing, not exploitative. Fair.
"And for Safety Not Guaranteed, it's a little more niche, more risk—but also more potential if done right. I can do twenty-five thousand. Same terms. RCA buys film rights. You keep your name in the credits and we'll work out royalties if the projects move forward."
Blake paused, mentally calculating. Sixty grand, just like that. For someone who couldn't even afford to celebrate getting the system just days ago, it felt like a lifetime of change.
"I accept," he said finally. "As long as I retain credit. And the scripts aren't heavily rewritten without a conversation."
Howard gave a short, approving nod.
"Good. I'll get legal to draw up the paperwork. Might take a few days."
Then he opened a drawer in his desk, rummaged briefly, and pulled out a cream-colored card.
"Here. Dave Flincher. Former RCA director, now semi-retired. He's still active with a few passion projects, and more importantly—he knows how to guide young talent."
Blake took the card carefully, reading the neat black letters: David Flincher - Director, Producer, Script Consultant.
"He's a good friend of mine," Howard continued. "Tell him I sent you. Let him read your scripts. If he sees what I see, he'll tell you how to refine them… and maybe, where to go next."
Blake stared at the card for a moment longer before pocketing it.
"Thank you, Uncle Martin. I mean it."
Howard gave him a rare, fatherly smile.
"Just make me proud, kid. That's all I ask."
Author's Note:
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